


Pathway to Boner City

by orchidbreezefc



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Boners, Close Quarters, Closets, LITERALLY, M/M, Narnia, Sloppy Makeouts, fucking narnia, just so many boner jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 17:43:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5879905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchidbreezefc/pseuds/orchidbreezefc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave and Karkat are together in a closet, for completely legitimate reasons. The 'completely legitimate reasons' for the makeout are mostly 'they feel like it'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pathway to Boner City

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, I just have so much fic I want to post ASAP. It's killing me to space them out. So here's this. 
> 
> I wrote it a long time ago, before the retcon, so the relationship more reflects the first meteor trip than the happy spinning-in-circles-holding-hands-with-the-mayor version. I tried to throw this in the vault never to be touched again like four times but I kept coming back to it because it was so funny to me. So I finally finished it!
> 
> Also, it's a crime that Dave doesn't use silly nicknames for Karkat in canon. A CRIME I tell you. I have the url honkpurr now and the title is KK Slider.

As you approach the wardrobe, made from a reddish-brown polished wood, standing alone in a room all to itself, the thought occurs to you once again that your best friend Dave Strider may, as precedent has often set before, be screwing with you. “If you lock me in there...” you warn, turning to him and looking him right in the sunglasses just to be sure there’s a precedent of not-shitting-around set here.

“I wouldn't do that, Karskittles,” he says, shrugging in a way that gives you no hint of honesty or betrayal. “Overdone.” You roll your eyes. One day, hardly looking up from examining some Earth fruit born of bitch voodoo, Rose had explained to you the concept of a ‘hipster’. Alternia, to its credit, does not have a counterpart to something so profoundly stupid, even though Eridan seems to have accidentally hit on the fashion involved. At any rate you are baffled by Dave’s nearly phobic distaste for any and all things popular; ‘mainstream’.

Dave opens the reddish door for you with a slight bow. You get your smile under control before he can see it and slap his hand away, shooting him a glare to discourage any errant ideas of pranking. He holds his hands up in a gesture of innocence. Upon consideration you take his wrist in hand, just to be sure he does not, in fact, lock you in alone. The lack of long-suffering sigh in response is encouraging.

You turn back to the wardrobe, which is a dark mess of coats from beasts you’ve never heard of. You close your eyes, step in on faith, and feel your way down the line of furs. Dave steps in behind you, his shoulders nearly on your back, and closes the door behind him. You feel your vascular bladder stop pumping for a moment. You remind yourself that he can’t lock you in here without locking himself in as well, but you’re still rather tense--from the claustrophy, of course. Your fingers are still at Dave’s pulse point in his wrist, but you realize you’ve never paid much attention to the pace of a human bladder pump. It’s probably always fast like that, just another in a laundry list of similarities between humans and squeakbeasts. Ridiculous.

Dave shuffles forward inasmuch as he can at all and leans over you, reaching over your shoulder. You feel his muscles against your shoulder working as he stretches forward. There is a moment where both of you are breathless--with anticipation that is--as he leans out in front of you.

He slowly draws back and you mentally categorize the shift of his muscles, familiar from griefing, as he settles back into a standing position, kind of hunched from the low ceiling. He breathes in slowly.

“Well?” you ask, not daring to open your eyes.

“That was the back of it,” Dave says eventually. “Guess Narnia isn’t in this one,” he continues, with some disappointment. You can’t tell if it’s genuine or not.

“You think it’s fake,” you accuse, turning and trying to discern his face in the darkness. The turning part is difficult on its own, with how close he is up against you. You nearly elbow him in the side, actually, but you are determined to incriminate him anyway. He cannot see you, of course--any chance of that is nullified by those damned glasses, but when you put your hands on your hips your fingers brush his own hipbones, so he gets the point of the gesture. “You think Narnia is a fucking fake, and you made me do this anyway.”

“No, no,” he says, following a pause after which his voice comes a little distant. “See, I got a theory. Narnia’s a different universe, right, maybe a planet in some session. Land of lamp-posts and goat people or whatever. And this C.S. Lewis asshole got there somehow. Happens, right? Fuckin’ Prospit dreamers and their pansy-ass clouds, you know. I know rings were in there somewhere, we got rings, rings are a thing,” he adds more vaguely.

“Yeah, those Prospit dreamers are some crazy pixie sparklefucks aren’t they? Oh, wait, I am a Prospit dreamer, you dipshit.”

Dave snorts. “Yeah, sure, you were. For like, two seconds. Before you got shanked.”

You feel your back stiffen, and Dave take a reactive breath. “Watch it, asshole,” you hiss through your teeth. Strider takes another breath to speak, and you’re halfway to a grief already, if he says one goddamn thing you’ll--

“Sorry, man.”

Oh.

You have no idea what to do, suddenly. Your hands fall to your sides and shit, what do you normally do with arms? They’re just dangling there like useless flesh tubes. Your chest is about flush with Dave’s and his bent stance brings one of his knees between your thighs. That breathlessness thing comes back again, and it’s not related to the ~mystery~ or ~anticipation~ this time, if anyone actually believed it was the first time you said it.

“Dave,” you begin haltingly, spreading your hands on the wood behind you for support, just in case. “This is pretty damn sketchy, you know.”

“Yeah,” he says, sort of softly, and you think you can feel his breath on your face. You close your eyes.

“If Rose caught us here, we’d never... we’d never, uh, hear the end of it.” You sort of lose track halfway through your sentence. This definitely does seem to be going in a direction nobody’s going to forget soon. You can’t quite place the emotion that makes you shiver.

“We’ll have to get done here fast before she can catch us,” Dave decides. You open your eyes to stare at him sightlessly. “That came out weird,” he says slowly, awkwardly bumping into every word as he says it.

There is silence. You realize Dave’s hands are planted on the wood behind you, just outside your hands. You’re trapped in the space between his arms. Trapped isn’t the right word--you’re enclosed. Your eyes close again; you feel your vascular bladder and air sponges pulsing excitedly in your chest. “I’ll pretend you never said that,” you offer generously, focusing entirely on keeping your voice steady, “if you kiss me right now.”

Strider inhales sharply and you think he’s going to speak, but fervently hope he does not. You’ve opened your mouth to warn him when you feel lips on your nose.

The farce of it is almost too much for your delicate constitution to bear right now. “You incompetent fuck,” you say in the tone of air escaping a balloon, “I’m--fucking--you’re an embarrassment.” You feel his lips part against your nose as fuel for an argument, and this is the stupidest situation you’ve ever been subjected to that is not directly Gamzee’s fault, so the only thing to do is grab him by the cheekbone and guide his lips to the right place.

Dave’s hands go to your hips at the same time as his tongue swipes over your teeth--okay what the hell did he do that for why would you even. You would ask as much but when Dave gets criticized he starts running his stupid fucking mouth, which is frankly a lot better put to other uses. So you focus on putting shit to rights; he’s already got his hands on your hips so you put your arms around his neck to balance it out. Your grip has better leverage than his, especially in his half squat, so he practically staggers into you. Not good then. Thinking on your feet you break off and make a space between a couple of cloaks for yourself, pressing your back securely to the side of the wardrobe.

“This isn’t fucking hide-and-seek,” Dave gripes, turning after you, clumsy in his giantness. Guess it’s your fault, thinking he’d have the two neural synapses required to process the idea that he should fucking follow the mouth he’s trying to stick his speech tentacle in. Fucking tentacle suckers with grub sauce, Dave’s such a goddamn idiot.

“No, it’s not, dunkass, because I am literally right fucking here,” you growl, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him in again. He gets the mouth location more or less right this time, even adjusts when he falls a bit off the mark. His hands go to your hips again like you are both five sweeps at a schoolhive dance. Fortunately all you have to do is tug him in by the waist and kiss him harder for a few moments, and then he’s bearing down on you, arms braced against the wall behind you, hips aiming downward and forward. You decide that as annoyingly overcomplicated as it seems to be, you really enjoy making out.

You figure it’s time that you can start feeling him up or whatever, judging by the fact that you really fucking want to. Despite being incredibly romantic, wrapping your arms around his neck is in practice pretty boring, so instead you push up the hem of his shirt and brush your fingers roughly over his stomach. He makes this stupid fucking noise which you wish you could have recorded for blackmail material, but you’re more interested in the fact that you can actually feel the results of the sparring on his body. You are so glad you push him as hard as you do because god damn, those muscles.

Dave starts pulling off a bit, which you don’t notice at first because you follow him millimeter for millimeter, but then he catches you in the chest and holds you off. “Dude, we have to stop,” he says, and you slow to a halt, licking your lips clean of saliva that’s not yours, trying to ignore the pressure tingles still buzzing in your lips.

Dave is not forthcoming, so after a long moment in which you are growing steadily and unpleasantly more lucid, you ask, “And why the fuck do we have to stop?”

“I,” he says. You hear the cogs turn in the big stupid clock he calls a head for a bit. You stroke your thumb back over the scar you gave him last week, just to keep him on track here.

“I have a boner,” he explains.

You roll your eyes on instinct before you remember the gesture is lost on him. “Yes, I know what that means. Earth slang. That’s the point.”

“No,” he says, uncomfortably. “This isn’t a metaphor, I have a literal boner.”

You pause and listen to your brain recalibrate itself. Boners can exist non-figuratively. Boner is not an expression. “Okay,” you say reasonably, “now tell me what the fuck a literal boner is.”

Dave hisses, which sets a spark through your stomach. “Okay. Fuck. So it refers to when you're like, fuck, you're turned on and stuff--you knew that."

"Yes," you say patiently. You wonder what kind of implication you have been missing all this time where literal boners are so disastrous that all amorous shenanigans must stop right when they're getting fucking good.

"Well, it's like--god. So human genitals--"

"What?!" you squawk.

"Shut up!"

“What are you doing with your fucking weird-ass human flapset without even fucking goddamn _asking_ —“

“Karkat—“

“Cornering me into your illicit pailing wardrobe—“

“Kay-kitters—“

“Plying me with talk of humans with beast halves—“

Dave kisses you again, which, kissing you when you're mad is NOT as romantic as the movies. But he goes, "Let me talk you dumbass," and his hands on you have gone to hold your face trying to convince you, and the fact that he tried at all takes the panic out of you, if not the choler.

"I'm listening," you spit.

"I wasn't gonna fuck you," he explains. "Def not without asking. Like, who the fuck would even."

You feel him lean off but his hands go to rub calming circles into your shoulders. It's so nice. "Okay," you say. "So give me a good reason why I shouldn't flip the fuck out about human genitals."

"It's an automatic response, all right? Involuntary. Not my fault. You just got your hands on me, feelin' up that happy trail, and you do that thing with your tongue and Li'l Dave is like 'sup fuckers let's fuckin' go."

You take a deep breath. "I touched something that activated your genitalia. Don't you think you could have fucking told me that happens?"

"Don't make it sound like that, it's not a god damn light switch. I just get turned on and it starts being a thing. Holy fuck, I can't do this." He leans back against the side of the wardrobe; you hear the click of him taking off his glasses to rub his eyes.

"No, wait," you say, "I want--" You hesitate. What DO you want?

You want to make out. Duh. Obviously. Boners, sex, all of that is secondary right now to having Dave Strider’s screech hole pressed against yours. 

“So what do we have to do to take care of this problem,” you say grimly. “Deactivate it. What happens if we don't.”

Dave pauses. "Nothing? It's just a boner, dude. I mean if I got real worked up I'd hump your leg like a fuckin' dog or something. I mean you already pretty much shut it down with the screaming."

"Wait, why did we have to stop in the first place then?" you howl in frustration.

"What do you mean, why? Do you want to get humped like a dog?" Dave's voice rises in volume and pitch. 

"Depends!" you screech back. "What the fuck is a dog?"

Dave inhales like he’s about to attempt to out-scream you (a very unwise course of action), but then, somehow, it doesn’t happen. He starts laughing, seriously laughing, instead. "Holy fuck," he wheezes. "Alien. You're an alien. Holy shit, I swapped spit with an alien."

"Yeah, well, me too I guess," you say, crossing your arms. "So?"

“Nothing, it just hit me, like. Holy shit.” Dave pauses to consider. “It's kind of hot actually."

On your planetary system, you colonize all aliens with brute force, so hearing Dave say that immediately puts a picture in your mind of him seeing you as some sort of inferior, savage creature--but humans are soft, and haven't even achieved space travel you think. So it's probably okay?

You decide to just ask. “Should I be offended, Strider? Because I'm all set to be real fucking offended."

“No! Nonono. You're the cutest little alien ball of clicky noises and teeth ever.” Dave feels out for you, nearly smacks you in the face, then collects you into his arms. “Don’t worry about it, Kitkat. The spitswap was fucking awesome, literal fucking space alien or not.” He brushes your hair in a random direction.

"Okay," you say, squirming out of his grasp, "by all the fucking void monsters and all their horrific unknowable names, you're getting human sap all over me." Your hand goes down and finds his, and you consider for a few moments. "Speaking of human sap," you say carefully and a little hopefully, "maybe now we can go to your room and you can tell me more about human boners?"

"Holy shit, Karlico Kat," Dave says, huffing out a surprised laugh. "I mean, damn. That's pretty forward of you."

You puff your cheeks in irritation. "I don’t always sit there being fucking Piney the Pinecone, okay? I can make a move once in a while."

"Clearly," says Dave, laughing again and, as far as you can tell, adjusting his glasses with his free hand. "Let's get out of here then."

"Okay," you say, a little glad he can't see your doofus grin. Dave kisses your hand, in your opinion a rather gallant way to avoid kissing you on the nose again, and leads you by the hand out into the snowy day.

...Wait.


End file.
